


Art of Gesture

by Phrenotobe



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/F, Mutual Pining, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, character tags will be added as this updates, dancer thirst, except for the part where girls can't get married. Boooooooo.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 11:45:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15023879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phrenotobe/pseuds/Phrenotobe
Summary: Say’ri looks up at Olivia, softly blinking as if she's the candlelight, and raises those two fingers again to brush a few stray hairs out of her eyes. Olivia’s hands rise to her face to cover the flush she knows is growing. Where once Olivia was too cold, she’s now too warm. Say’ri’s hand presses against her back to hold her straight. Olivia’s first fear is that she’s outstayed her welcome.





	1. Nightvision

When it comes to dancing, Olivia hates being watched. She dances because she must, the song in her heart that moves through her body, the echoes of the music she's learned and loved. She reaches toward the harvest moon, safe in knowing that nobody is there to watch her.

When she's done, the night air is cool. She shivers a little and heads for the mess hall. there's soup there still, and few people around to make her worry. 

Most people bunch together, but she ladles some soup from the cooling toureen and looks for a place to sit. One of the tables has a single occupant - the princess of Chon'sin, leaning back in a chair with one hand tucked under her cheek and the fingertips of her other hand lingering on the hilt of her sword. It isn't anything like Olivia expects, but she seems asleep, and so probably won't want to talk.

Olivia bleats a small apology as she sits down, still shivering from the cooling perspiration that clings to her. The evening is dim enough that the candles are lit everywhere but where she sits, and she turns her head about, looking for an excuse to borrow one. she hasn't got the bottle to ask, and nobody offers their own. 

She's just about to rise, with another excuse to her companion in silent slumber, when Say'ri's eyelid cracks open. Silently, and without being asked, she draws a flint and steel to strike the light. 

Olivia shivers again in the corner candlelight, illuminated but still in the dark. Now awake, Say'ri settles in her seat evenly, pulling the string that crosses her chest from side to side so it falls apart and then drawing the jacket from her shoulders. Say'ri folds the jacket neatly over one arm and lifts the other to beckon Olivia to her. 

Perhaps it is the evening, laying heavy on them both, but Olivia follows the crook of her fingers as though the dynast has cast an invisible hook to land on her ribs and draw her forward. She puts herself where she thinks she's wanted, in the space between her knees.

Say'ri's arms circle her, cloak her in warmth and the furtive scent of valmese roses, the cloying after-puff of lily-of-the-vale. Fur comes up around Olivia's pink cheeks, her arms guided through the garment to wear it. 

The jacket folds around her, warm like a hug, and Say’ri looks up to her, too close. She pulls down on the strings of that jacket as she makes to tie it again, and Olivia sits neatly on one of Say’ri’s legs, her hands curling up tight on her lap. 

Say’ri fumbles the strings before she picks them up again, tying them closed. Her fingers brush the fine gauze covering Olivia’s chest as she does, but she looks down and away rather than mention it. Once the bow has been tied - perfect, exact - she exhales and fits her hand over her sword again. 

“Th-thank you,” Olivia peeps, unsure whether to go or to stay. She’s uncertain in her seat instead of managing to stand, and Say’ri’s palm fits to the dip of her back to support her there. She still hasn’t said a word. 

Say’ri looks up at Olivia, softly blinking as if she's the candlelight, and raises those two fingers again to brush a few stray hairs out of her eyes. Olivia’s hands rise to her face to cover the flush she knows is growing. The movement of her arms brings up the scent of flowers, a dizzy feeling with it. 

Say’ri shifts forward, metal drags on wood and Olivia turns towards the sound. Her bowl is closer, within reach of the arc of Say’ri’s arm. Her hand is resting on the table by the bread plate. Her chin tips, too, in a silent question. 

Where once Olivia was too cold, she’s now too warm. Say’ri’s hand presses against her back to hold her straight. Olivia’s first fear is that she’s outstayed her welcome. Now that she’s less cold and less scared, her hunger is back, along with the realization that she’s almost definitely imposing on somebody she’s barely spoken a word to. But she can’t just leave wearing somebody else’s jacket, and so she draws the bowl a little closer. 

Say’ri nods, her free hand once again at her chin. Olivia wonders if it’s a habit for Say’ri to entertain her handmaidens on her knee. She’s sure she’s breaking some kind of rule. But Say’ri’s eyes close again, as though Olivia weighs nothing more than a feather, and she turns her head to rest it as she did before. 

Olivia dares to take bread, making a good meal of it. She’s afraid to make a mess of the warm gift she’s been loaned, and so she does everything with all the slow grace she can find. The dining hall empties out around her but she doesn’t note it, listening instead for the danger of her seat coming awake like a sleeping mountain. 

Say’ri shifts in place as Olivia’s spoon hits the bottom of the bowl with a clang. Olivia freezes and Say’ri hums a warm note to acknowledge her, the sound soft and sleepy.  
“Lady Olivia,” she says, “‘Tis a bitter night. May I escort you home?” 

Olivia stands abruptly, her point of balance off from too long sitting in one position. Her limbs are heavy with sleep and a day’s exercise. She’s sure she can make it on her own.  
“Oops,” she says, “Sorry.”  
The sudden movement brings up another soft note of what Olivia is by now convinced is Say’ri’s perfume.  
“...Yes,” she remembers to say, “Thank you.” 

They exit the mess hall with the stately slowness of those who yearn for nothing but rest. Say’ri’s silhouette looks unfinished without her jacket, but she refuses to have it back. The night has only got colder, so Olivia doesn’t put up any resistance to the counterpoint. Say’ri keeps Olivia in the shadow, close enough that their hands touch back to back. 

Olivia feels the brush of it and shivers, and a moment later puts her hand to her mouth to yawn. She swallows it awkwardly a moment later as Say’ri hooks under her legs and lifts her. Then she’s floating, two points around her knees and her ribs holding her in space and the fluff of Say’ri’s jacket pressing against her cheek. 

The stars are out, but Olivia is curled in, comforted and alarmed by over-familiarity in turns. The pace is hypnotic and steady as Say’ri walks, turning toward the barracks without being asked. She thinks she wants to walk but can’t ask for it; she pillows her head in the thick fur of Say’ri’s collar and puts her arm around her neck to hold on tight.


	2. Face to Face

The morning makes her feel the night was a dream. Olivia wakes with the sun on her cheeks, steaming through the window of her room with guilt leaking in by the position of the sun. She's almost certainly missed roll call, and her door is ajar from somebody checking in on her. She rolls over to put her face into the blanket, muffled with fur tickling her nose. Inhaling with a cough, lilies linger in the morning air. 

Olivia pats around with a hand, finding a button and the hard rim of a jacket lapel edged in gold thread. The question of how turns into why. She leaves the coat where it is, promising the air that she’ll give it back. The sun is shining, and Olivia is already warm. 

There is a tree out by the paddock that Olivia likes to dance beneath. It bears nothing but crab-apples and casts only scattered shade, so there’s no reason to linger near it, but it isn’t so far away from camp that she’d be caught unawares. Unfortunately though, the space beneath is already occupied. 

Away from the regimented and staid order of Frederick’s fitness hour, somebody is doing training of their own. Say’ri wears a blue replacement of the jacket Olivia woke up on, taken from stores. It fits over her usual white armor. Rose suits her, but blue makes her look stern. 

Her movements are regular and slow, the first three steps of a dance. She repeats it, adds a fourth step, and does it over again from the start. All logical; but her swords are in the sheath. The pace continues, one to two, to three, to four. Her hands follow the pattern, one to two, a fist, to three, an open palm, to four. 

Olivia takes cover so she won’t be seen and moves closer. Say’ri dips to a knee, holds the position, and then rises slowly. Her blade slides silently from the sheath at last. 

Say’ri runs her drills twice more and then she seems to awaken. Her face takes on a look of concern as she shifts to shaping the track of her sword through the air, turning it at last with a flick to fit back at her side. She has her hands on both swords, ready to draw them free for another drill beyond it, when she catches Olivia perching on a barrel, half out of sight behind a wooden box. 

“Olivia?” she says, and Olivia squeaks, diving out of sight. She tips over, falling into the space behind a sheaf of spears and the corner dirt of two different boxes of vegetables. 

“Did I surprise you?” Say’ri says. She’s fast. Olivia should have known. Olivia reaches a hand up blindly for help, hoping she’ll take it. Say’ri’s hand is firm and strong, and she catches Olivia at the dip of the back to stop her from tipping backwards when she’s upright. 

A little thrill runs up Olivia’s spine at the contact. Say’ri’s fingers are warm and it is the third time she’s put her hand there. They’re so close that they could be dancing together, palm to palm and body to body. Olivia closes her eyes, feeling her blood simmering through her cheeks in a flush. Her hips tilt at an angle, her thigh brushing against Say’ri’s bare leg, her knee touching the hard edge of the armor she wears over her shins. 

“N-no,” Olivia says softly, “No.”  
She can’t tell if the feeling is fear or something else. She wants to run but also to stay. Say’ri hasn’t let go. She tips her head, concerned, and lowers their joined hands.

“Please mind where you sit,” Say’ri says, “You could have been severely injured.”  
She takes a step back, dipping her head. The grip on Olivia’s hand unfurls and breaks. 

“I’m sorry,” Olivia says, “I’ll try harder.” 

Say’ri turns on her way, and Olivia leans into the shape of her passing and the curl of the air as Say’ri makes her way onwards, feeling bare-handed and bereft. Olivia folds her hands in, over her chest, and tries to quiet the feeling that turns over and aches inside her chest. She forgot to mention the jacket, too.


	3. Something About Us

The week flows on as it tends to. Olivia is on the duty roster just like anybody else, and today she’s in charge of cooking with others to make the nightly meal. The window on the wall of the kitchen shines through with a late afternoon that looks out on Ylisse - a magical pocket that allows the room to exist in a different place when the anchor is dropped. 

Say’ri is already in the room when Olivia enters it. She sits in the corner with a short blade in her hands, the yellow sun lighting up on her hair. She’s studying the sharpness of the knife and the shape of the vegetable before she trims it and puts it into the cooking pot by one knee, and when she hears the sound of the door she looks up, murmuring a ‘well met’ and nothing else.

Say’ri didn’t have much when her rebels joined Chrom’s army. A few of her best have followed her into the guard that serves Chrom directly, but for the most part, they pick up pockets of spies or fighters here and there and amalgamate them into the regular ranks. Because of all that and the year she’s spent on the run, she hasn’t many spare clothes. 

She’s wearing tall boots from Virion, dark jodhpurs that belt up high on the waist from Cherche and a shirt that might be Chrom’s - Sully is about Say’ri’s size, but she never wears frilled cuffs if she can help it. The loose, floppy fit of it reveals a lot of her shoulders, and Say’ri’s forehead is unusually bare. 

Olivia didn’t imagine she’d ever see a princess wearing it. She tries to clear her mind of the image before she starts to deal with the things on the counter, and brushes down her dress. She can see seasonings, table settings, a superfluity of cutlery and a small pot of friendship seeds, which Robin insists are things that bring people together. Most just grind them into their flour to add sweetness to their wedding breads. She takes a few and slips them into her pocket for later before setting aside the worst of the work for later. She takes her time with it, finding spoons and forks lost in the sink water and stacking them on the ceramic flat. That done, she dries her hands and reaches for the recipe sheet pinned up on the corkboard. 

“Do you have a leather to sharpen the blade by you?” Say’ri asks. The heels of her shoes on the tile aren’t loud enough to break Olivia’s concentration when she puts her focus on the recipe, and so the question makes her startle. Olivia breathes out slowly and puts a hand over her chest to check if her heart has skidded out through her ribs. 

“Um,” Olivia says, “Oh, I can’t think.”  
She’s usually good with detail - with dancing, it is especially important to watch for it - but today she can’t work out the pleasant disarray of the barracks kitchen. She pats at the counter absently near a likely suspect.

Feeling warmer than usual, Olivia wonders if she’s coming down with something. She leans back to let her look for herself. As Say’ri dips forward, a symbol on a chain slips forward from her collar.   
“Ah,” Say’ri says, “Here. Thank you.”  
She reaches and retrieves what she’s looking for. Olivia doesn’t think she’s been much of a help to her. After the moment passes, Olivia looks again at the recipe list for the week. 

Say’ri clips the leather to the hook on the wall and starts to sharpen the blade in long, even strokes. By way of trying to make conversation, Say’ri clears her throat, though she doesn’t speak afterwards. Olivia wonders if she’s just used to commanding attention and making requests by gesture alone. 

“Do you want to cut up the vegetables for the stew?” Olivia asks, glad that Say’ri isn’t directly in her line of sight. It is a lot easier to think. She recieves a warm ‘Hm’ in return, which she interprets as agreement. 

The scratch of the blade fills the quiet of the kitchen, so regular that Olivia ceases to note the noise. There’s a short pause as Say’ri checks the blade for sharpness.   
Olivia looks over her shoulder, still moving and organizing plates by feel. She catches Say’ri looking directly at her. Her mouth twitches, and she gives Olivia a slow nod. 

“What is it?” Olivia asks. Getting more words out of the reticent princess seems difficult, but she might as well try. 

Say’ri turns her head away to look down at the blade. Her long hair swings forward to block the view of her face, and she does one more scrape down the measure.   
“I hope you don’t mind,” she says, “I requested that our duty might align so that we could work together.”

Olivia reaches without looking, and nudges a small vase of flowers, nearly tipping it. She catches it and sighs as the base makes full contact with the counter.   
“Oh!” she says, “I had no idea.”   
“Yes,” Say’ri confirms. Her voice is soft and slightly husky, as though she’s forcing herself to talk properly for the first time that day. Olivia steels herself against the sound. The dry air of it makes the fine hairs on her arms stand on end.   
“I meant to tell you,” she says, as casually as she can, “that I still have your-”  
“My surcoat, aye,” Say’ri says, “May I collect it?” 

She turns her head to look at Olivia as she speaks, but looks away just as quickly.   
“Sure!” Olivia says brightly, “If we’ve got enough time, I’ll be able to get it for you after dinner is over. Here, look at the recipe, or we’ll do more work than we need to.”

Her passing through the room brings with it the rose-and-lily scent that Olivia can’t avoid, no matter where she turns. She catches Say’ri’s sleeve, and tugs on it to make her stop.   
“Wait,” Olivia says, drawing one of the ribbons from her hair, “Hold still.” 

Say’ri waits patiently as Olivia draws her thick hair into a single stripe, tying it as best she can. The bow fits up underneath the curve of her skull, and draws all of her hair down to a point. Olivia reaches upward to pat Say’ri’s shoulder.   
“Ready to go,” Olivia says warmly, and Say’ri turns, a hand at her nape to touch the shape of it. 

“Thank you,” she says. Without the protective cover of her hair over her face, it seems like she can only manage to look at Olivia for a few moments before she needs to focus somewhere else. She pulls it forward, over one shoulder.

“I will return the ribbon when I can,” Say’ri says, touching it again, her eyes fixing firmly on the piled sink where half an army’s worth of dishes are waiting, “Perhaps as an exchange for what you have of mine.”

Say’ri gestures to the chair by the vegetables, and Olivia exchanges places to sit there. Now that Say’ri can look out of the window instead, she settles in to work at the sink as though she’s been turned into clockwork, numb in the ears.

Olivia is mildly alarmed at how efficient Say’ri is. By the time a stack of plates is done, she’s only managed a half dozen vegetables, because she’s following the shape of Say’ri’s back; mesmerised by the tender shape of Say’ri’s nape behind the column of her hair, watching the play of muscle and bone made visible from the deep curve of her shirt where it dips at the back. 

When the pile of dishes on the left is higher than the right, Olivia calls to her to ask for a break, but Say’ri doesn’t think about it. She stays at her post and continues, a plate in the left hand, turned, rinsed, rinsed again, placed on the cloth to dry the worst of the wet while she deals with the next. She hums a note to say she’s noticed, but ultimately Olivia just slows down to a snail’s pace for the minutes she allows herself. 

 

At last, she lays the final plate on the pile and straightens, putting her hand on her sternum as she turns.

“You called for me?” she says, one hand tucked neat at her side and the other still by her waist. Olivia didn’t know that the impression of a butler could ever be thrilling.   
“I did,” she says, “Yes, I mean - you did a lot! But you seemed quiet.”  
Say'ri's hand goes up to tuck a stray lock of hair from where it fell from, playing with the end. 

“Thinking of lost causes brings nothing but trouble,” Say’ri says cryptically, “It does little good to think upon the problem further. For good or ill, we march in three days. So I focused on the task on hand. Truly, the vision of a city at ease does much to calm the heart.” 

Olivia tries to think of where they’re going next. They’re crossing farmland, under strict orders to buy their produce - not that she’d ever want to take it - and then...

“To the tree, isn’t it?” Olivia says, “That is what you meant by the march - Did I get that right?”   
Say’ri comes to sit on the barrel next to Olivia’s seat.   
“Mila’s divine boughs,” Say’ri says, sitting down with Olivia, picking up a small gourd and delivering a smart tap with a blunted knife. It splits open and she widens the gap slowly with her fingers. Olivia eyes the spectacle without telling her not to, and continues turning potatoes and carrots into cubes and rounds.   
“The forces of our enemy linger at the base, moving forward day by day. It matters not.”  
Say’ri’s hair, so smooth, is slipping slowly out of the ribbon. She draws the ribbon from her hair, letting it be free. Her centre parting re-establishes itself. Without thinking, she coils it three times around her fingers, putting it into her pocket. 

“It kinda sounds like it does,” Olivia says, delicately removing the vegetable from Say’ri’s hand. She expects resistance, but Say’ri lets go almost as soon as Olivia pulls at it. After a moment of heavy deliberation, Olivia places the sharpened knife she took when they switched back into her hand.   
“Just... Try to relax, okay? Three days is a long time to be worried.”   
The look that Say’ri gives Olivia makes her think that it might have already been longer than that. Olivia lays a hand on Say’ri’s arm, in part because the way she’s dealing with vegetables is making her feel odd, but also because Say’ri seems to need a friend.  
“I will try,” Say’ri says. She reaches for a piece of fruit and eyes the rind suspiciously. “You might already see that I am full of bad habits.”

Olivia doesn’t know if it is a joke, but she laughs anyway. The tension between them eases, little by little, and Say’ri dries her fingers and begins to work again, quiet as she does. 

The knife stays in Say’ri’s hand. Olivia sits with her - in case she needs to talk, but she doesn’t seem to want to - and eventually the room falls into a comfortable silence. Olivia takes up the other knife and tries to cut her own share of the remaining pile, but doesn’t work well. Instead, Olivia stands, her mind on the leather still hanging on the wall.   
“Lady Olivia?” Say’ri says, with mild surprise. 

Olivia didn’t pay enough attention at first. If she could, she’d rather not touch a blade at all. but she takes her place there and levels her chin at it, determined to follow through.   
“Excuse me.”

Olivia moves to where that leather hangs and brushes her thumb over the surface lightly, feeling the sharp of the grain. It could be sharkskin for all she knows, but it will do the job if she’s careful not to scratch her hands. Olivia scrapes the blade down the rough as well as she can, but the noise isn’t the same as the one Say’ri managed to make.

At the sound, Say’ri lifts her head.   
“Do you need aid?” she asks. She sets one elbow on her knee, a half-peeled apple in her hand and her knife in the other. Ready to move, but waiting.   
“No, I think I have it,” Olivia says, her long hair flicking her cheek as her head swiftly turns, “Really!”

She puts knife to leather and tries again. It scratches jaggedly, flicking upward by a hair as the blade hits a notch in the material. She sighs, frustrated, and angles her hand three ways to make sure she isn’t hurt.  
“I _can_ do it.”

This time, the sound of Say’ri’s shoes doesn’t surprise her. Olivia barely turns before Say’ri reaches forward, taking her hand and curling her own fingers around it. 

“I know you can,” Say’ri says, her warm breath stirring the curled fluff of Olivia’s fringe. She’s tall enough that her jaw brushes against the top of Olivia’s skull when she dips her head, gently encouraging the motion of the blade downwards at an angle Olivia hadn’t considered. Olivia feels as though she should move out of the way, but there’s nowhere to turn as Say’ri supports the leather with one hand and follows Olivia’s hand with the other. 

Olivia shivers through the chill proximity gives her. They’re close enough that they may as well be partners, the curve of her arm by her waist not close enough to touch. She aches to lean into it, for the turn into the next step. It just feels frustrating when that doesn’t happen. Say’ri releases her hand at the end of the stroke.   
“Olivia?” Say’ri says.   
“I want to try it again,” Olivia says, with only partial surprise as Say’ri takes her hand again. Her hands are warm and dry. 

Olivia tries to concentrate. She starts again (from the top, as always) and plucks her courage up to do it just one more time before she gives up. The stroke goes down evenly, with a gentle squeeze around her knuckles to remind her to press down over the bump.   
“Good,” Say’ri murmurs, the plosive across Olivia’s head sending a thrill all the way down her spine. 

Olivia flushes through with pride. She repeats the gesture once more, guided gently through. It feels hypnotic, with Say’ri’s warm presence close at her back, the even sound of her breath above Olivia’s ear and the slow rays of the afternoon sun through the window. Though her heart thuds and something in her chest curls up in a coil, she doesn’t want to be anywhere else but like this. They could be dancing. She wants to. 

“Aye, just like that,” Say’ri says, and Olivia almost falls with weightlessness when Say’ri opens her hands and steps away. Once again, she’s too open, and waiting for a kind of something - anything - but what she longs for doesn’t yet have a name. Olivia loves her dress, as it fits perfectly and keeps her warm in the autumns and winters of Regina Ferox, but for the moment it feels heavy and stiff on her, weighing her down. 

Say’ri takes her seat again, reaching for the things she put down. Olivia calls to her, hoping she won’t fall into that same deep focus.   
“We’re friends, aren’t we?”   
“Friends?” Say’ri says, and her brow creases in a thoughtful frown, “...Of course.”   
Olivia puts a hand to her own mouth to cover her nervous laugh. She can feel the blood colouring through her cheeks. As though a magnet draws her, she comes to stand in front of Say’ri again. Say’ri didn’t even need to beckon. 

The princess of Chon’sin leans back to oblige her, and once again Olivia is in the fork of her legs. She puts a hand on Say’ri’s shoulder, palm on naked skin above the loose edge of her shirt, and hooks her finger under the chain to raise it up out of Say’ri’s shirt. Olivia tilts her head to understand it; a pair of wings and a long line through the middle, stylized so much she can’t tell what kind of bird it is supposed to be. Say’ri doesn’t explain, and Olivia can’t yet ask.   
Say’ri takes Olivia’s hand a moment later, holding it again to open her fingers up and brush the symbol out of her palm and then to maneuver it down to rest on her shoulder, to mirror the other one. The soft of Say’ri’s touch was not a kiss, but it feels like one, put so gently. Say’ri’s hands link around Olivia’s waist in the moments after Olivia links her own around Say’ri’s shoulders.   
“This is a kitchen,” Say’ri reminds her, “People are waiting for us to finish our task.” 

As though she’s thought of something shameful, Say’ri turns her head down to break the contact between them both, and the curtain of her hair comes down again, over her face and part of her eyes, framing the dip of her clavicle between threaded collar strings.   
“I know,” Olivia says, and she laughs but doesn’t understand why. 

“Are you sure that this is how friendship is done in Regina Ferox?” Say’ri asks, though by her tone she expects it isn’t that way. Her hands on Olivia’s waist shift to interlace her fingers behind the curve of her back.   
“I shouldn’t think so,” Olivia says, “But I’ve been so many places, it might be right somewhere.”   
Olivia takes the corner of Say’ri’s jaw and lifts it up with her fingertips. It doesn’t suit a noblewoman to look so sad. 

"Well then," Say'ri says, the change in subject abrupt, “Perhaps a pie, after we’re through.”   
Olivia brightens. Baking pies is something she likes, and they’re nice and warm on a cold day. Perhaps it’ll be something she can show Say’ri instead. 

“Maybe,” she says. Mercifully, the growing shame about the way she feels is content to linger painfully over her heart, a small anguish she staves off by touching the pad of her thumb to Say’ri’s gentle mouth. Soft, again, and Say’ri seems captivated by the touch, the warmth of her exhale barely a breath. Her head turns to it and her hands press lightly to Olivia’s sides, as if to confirm another existence beneath her palms. It feels good. 

“Lady Olivia, you seem flushed,” Say’ri comments, sweeping away the moment tidily, “Do you need to sit?”   
Say’ri stands swiftly, catching Olivia’s open hand from beneath her chin. She takes two steps to twirl her and fit her on the barrel where she once sat. Olivia has her dance, and it is over so fast she can barely believe it.   
“We have to finish our duties,” Say’ri says, her smile short and shy, “But I will request to work with you again.”


	4. Short Circuit

They part ways after the meal is done, leaving Ricken and Vaike to heave the food out into the hall. Ricken strains to lift the cauldron of soup until Vaike puts his arms around the rim and lifts with his legs. Ricken’s feet lift from the floor and kick uselessly as Vaike manhandles the pot through the door on his own. Olivia covers her mouth to hide her laugh, distracted enough that Say’ri has vanished by the time she turns. 

The mess hall is already busy by the time Olivia has changed and come back to eat. Say’ri sits at a table with Flavia on her left, already discussing something lost among the satellite noise. What she says seems to make Flavia pleased; she laughs and slaps Say’ri’s back like an old friend. Say’ri seems shocked by the contact at first, but relaxes as she smiles, straightening her back after the impact. 

Flavia’s good humour makes it easier for Olivia to try and approach Say’ri, but before she manages that, Maribelle catches her arm and leads her to a different table. Olivia realizes a few moments after she turns that the other table Maribelle is guiding her to is too far away to talk. 

“Darling?” Maribelle asks, trying to catch her attention, “Please, you’ve been away with the fairies since the very moment I saw you. Eat something, dear, you’ll waste away.”  
Olivia confronts the dishes on the table, stocked up with sliced meats in one dish and chunks of cheese and fruit in another. There are steamed greens she personally oversaw further down the table, and Stahl pushes them over with the side of his arm when she looks his way. 

“I don’t know,” Olivia says, although the admittance isn't freeing, “I guess I've just been having a lot of surprises lately.”  
“Oh?” Maribelle says. She doesn't push for any more information, but the tip of her eyebrow indicates that she wants to. She begins to load up a plate without being asked, a delicious mess vaguely split by colour. Sumia leans out around somebody else's elbow and tries to catch Olivia's eye. “Is it a good kind of surprise?” she asks. 

“You know, I'm not really sure right now still, but I will let you know when I know too.” Olivia says.  
She’s still thinking about the easy way Say’ri turned with her, a gentle hand in hers that knew exactly where to step. She didn’t know that was something a princess would bother with - of course a noblewoman knows how to dance, but- 

“You’re all pink,” Maribelle says, “just like a strawberry. Oh, to think of you slaving away in that kitchen! you’re so delicate, dear, don’t over-exert yourself.”  
Maribelle, for all her quirks and little flaws, isn’t a bad friend. She tilts the plate in her hands to regard it and finally deems it acceptable, laying it down in front of Olivia.  
“Eat, darling, please.”

“Yeah,” Olivia says, “I’m okay, I promise. I think I just have a lot to think about.” She accepts the plate she’s given and stares at it. Food was a lot easier before she had to cook it with other people. She picks up a fork from the table and nudges at the vegetables, remembering Say’ri’s hands over her own. 

“Oh yes, you’re still in the kitchen this week, aren’t you? Don’t let that woman work you too hard.” Maribelle says, and sniffs. “Even if she is a princess. Royalty have no excuse.”  
Maribelle’s objection on Olivia’s behalf makes her laugh. If anything, she’d taken it easy. She holds her tongue, still glad she hasn’t been given any questions. She finally digs in, listening to Stahl and Donnel talk about how their potted garden was growing. 

“Have you heard that we are to be on the march again in just a few days?”  
“It'll be a lot of effort to pick things up again,” Olivia says, “And I just got my room how I like it, but at least we're moving forward, right?”

“I like the adventure,” Donny says, leaning over his fork to try and cram a potato into his mouth without cutting it up first. Stahl grins and nudges his elbow gently, and Donnel puts it back down. “And well, I don't have much, so there ain’t no reason for me to worry about picking it all up and starting over.”

“I travel light too,” says Stahl. “My armour is the heaviest thing I've got.”  
“What have you got in your room that’s so bulky anyhow?” Donnel asks, “Maybe when we pack up, I can help move it.” 

Olivia thinks of the purple jacket sitting on her bed, an incriminating reminder of how she was carried to bed and tucked in warmly. She covers her face with her hands. Who wouldn’t be pink? 

“Oh hush,” Maribelle says like a proud little Bantam chicken, ruffled feathers on Olivia’s behalf that she tries to smooth down, “You needn't bother her while she's sitting down to eat.”  
Donnel just grins at her words and lets the topic drop.  
“I don’t think you’d have much to hide, anyway,” he says. “You’re too honest.” 

Olivia knows it isn’t true.


	5. One More Time

Flavia sets up to leave with Basilio in the morning, heading out to meet Walhart and halt him in his tracks. The other nobles horde around them, congratulating them on their bravery, cheering them on. Say’ri clasps Flavia’s hand for one final goodbye; a white ribbon is tied around her right wrist, shot through with gold thread. The fabric is heavy and silken, difficult to notice against the white sheen of Say’ri’s armor. Flavia’s elegant eyebrow raises at the sight. 

Olivia is too far away to hear what they say, but she sees the white ribbon around Say’ri’s wrist, on edge as Say’ri leans in to whisper into Flavia’s ear.   
Doubt rushes in on her next breath. Flavia leans in kind, her breath on Say’ri’s cheek, saying something too quiet to catch at a distance that leaves Say’ri red and stunned. 

Maribelle breaks from the group soon enough, navigating directly for Olivia before she’s even had a chance to move. She takes Olivia’s hand and gives her a fond little smile on the edge of smug.

“My dear, we really should be going or we’ll miss the market,” Maribelle says.  
Olivia squeezes Maribelle’s hand, dithering as she’s gently tugged away. She doesn’t want to leave, not really. Say’ri is too far off and too far removed to talk to, but it doesn’t mean she can’t see her in the common rooms.   
“I’m not sure I need anything,” Olivia says, “I’d just be a drag.”  
“Not at all, it’s my treat,” Maribelle replies, “And you need to replace that ribbon, don’t you?”  
Olivia’s face grows red-hot. She stops resisting - Maribelle is set in bringing her along, eager to see the sights of a market after a long time nowhere near civilized things. 

The day is a warm one, skies a sliver of blue against an oncoming storm. Olivia relaxes, as well as she can. The village folk are kind to her, happy to see soldiers with coin and good strong swords. 

Olivia missed the colour and the perfume of a market. She touches the patterns, swaying gently to the sound of the fiddle player, playing for coin in the market square. Perfume from the soap stand follows through the market on the breeze. 

She’s grateful that for once, it isn’t lilies. 

Maribelle takes her hand again. The shape of her glove fits around the curve of her hand easily, and they navigate round the ebb and flow of the market. The calm lul of the alleyways makes the sounds of the village quiet to a murmur. 

There is a small tent in the alley made out of flax and burlap patch. It sits in the gap between the back ends of two different stores, washed over with cattle market smells and dairy aged two weeks, laid down for cheese. There’s a waxed blanket over the top of it to keep out the damp, dusty without the rain. Olivia is tugged along behind Maribelle’s interest, hand in hand. 

There’s treasures spread across the blanket counter. Dice stacked in a pyramid, a spread of old coins to bid for service, brass ornaments made brown and green with age. A crone presides over it all. She’s half hidden with a pipe and an old, repaired hood. She looks like she grew there, from dust and smoke, an aggregate pile of creases and clothes that settled, long ago. 

Maribelle isn’t concerned. She asks for two fortunes, one for her and one for Olivia, paying up-front without asking if Olivia wants it done so. It’s boldness that Olivia stands in the grateful shadow of. The crone smiles and pulls out bones for augury, bottled up in glass and covered over with waxed cloth and string as curious jam. The bones scatter in patterns, and are picked over and measured fingertip to fingertip. The crone’s smile grows large. 

She rolls forward into the sunlight and reaches past Maribelle’s hip, beckoning for Olivia’s hand.   
“Oh, love, yes,” she cackles, “you’ve known it, haven’t you. That bloom of love fits your cheeks-”  
Olivia tries to peel away but the old woman’s hands fasten on to her fingers like iron bands.   
“Shy, aren’t you?” she says.

“Unhand her,” Maribelle says clearly, firmly. Olivia goes even redder, feeling like her body is burning up with shame, part glad that somebody stepped in. The woman releases her hands, her mouth twisting up in an ugly moue.   
“You’ll not see it until it’s too late,” the old woman calls, her voice shrill and scratchy like a crow, “You won’t see, no you won’t!” 

“Oh, boo!” Maribelle calls in return, tucking Olivia behind her body, regardless of how Olivia is tall enough to peek over her left shoulder, “Spare your common curses and finish your dilly-dallying. My friend isn’t to be manhandled!”

“Oh is she now,” the crone says, “Come then, girl, settle down and give me your palm.”   
Still nervous, Olivia holds out her hand again. The old woman’s finger swirls around the dip, ticklish and soft.  
“What do you want to know, then?” the crone asks.   
“Uh-um,” Olivia dithers, “Will I get what I want?”   
“You need to take your chances when you find them, if you’re going to succeed in life,” she says, “Foolish girl.”   
Olivia goes red with shame. It’s reasonable advice, of course, but spoken harshly. Maybe the pennies she's counting will never see what they're meant for. The crone waits for the next question. 

“I’m, I mean, I’m-” her voice mutes out, strangled with nerves. She pushes through it, hard.   
“I just want to know if she likes me!” Olivia yells. 

The noise rattles the air. 

“well then,” the crone says, “pay attention. She’ll soon tell you.” 

“...Will she ever dance with me?” Olivia peeps, so quietly the hum of the crowds almost covers it.   
“Will she dance with you?” the Crone echoes, “She’s a soldier first. Find out if she wants to dance.” 

She releases Olivia’s hand. Maribelle tucks Olivia behind herself once more, snapping open the belt around the wrist of her glove.  
“You’ll find I’m no coward!” she says proudly. 

Olivia lingers behind her, catching a flash of purple in the distance. She turns away to focus and listen, inching closer to Maribelle. Maribelle smells like soap and leather polish beneath the haze of her scent. It helps clear her head.


End file.
